


Keep doubting myself (I'm not the desperate type)

by sidsvicious



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Highschool! Au, I wrote this bc im pining over a guy lmao, M/M, Multi, petes a jock and patricks smitten af, tags will be added as I go, what's up losers ya boys back with another poorly written fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:16:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidsvicious/pseuds/sidsvicious
Summary: Patrick shouldn't be allowed to have crushes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> what's up guys I wrote this chapter while I was sewing patches on my crust pants lmao

You know that gut wrenching moment in your life where you do something really fucking dumb you think "hey this is a really good idea" in the heat of the moment but the minute after you fucking do the dumb thing—the sheer reality of the situation hits and you feel like dying a slow, painful death.

So, that's Patricks life right about now.

Currently, he's in the janitors closet, hiding. Panic rising slowly in his chest till it claws at his throat because he /doesn't fuckin think before he does shit/

And okay, it may not even be a big deal right? Making a mix-tape for your crush and putting it in his locker. Seems like a total teenager thing to do, right?

Expect it's not that simple, and he's probably never going to recover from the shit he's going to get for /fucking recording covers of songs for a /boy/. 

Patrick is pretty sure his crush—Pete Wentz—isn't gay. Because hey, he's a total soccer jock and the entire soccer team is made up of a bunch of straight guys who still use 'no homo' unironically.

And Pete /can't/ be gay; and not to be stereotypical or anything—but he's never met a gay jock.

Patrick holds his head in his hands, resisting the urge to scream at himself for being a fucking IDIOT. Taking a deep breath, he slowly stands up, his jelly feeling legs threatening to give out from under him. He takes off his trucker hat, runs his hands through his hair, and swings open the door to leave.

"Yo, what the fuck?" His friend Joe says, surprised to see his friend emerge from a broom closet, "is someone in there with you?"

Patrick flushes, and swats him, "No—no ," he stutters, throughly embarrassed by the remark, "i was having a Moment."

Joe adjusts his backpack strap, straining to see behind Patrick and into dark closet behind him. The strawberry blonde rolls his eyes. 

"Joe," He says impatiently, crossing his arms, "can we just ditch first period and go to Jamba Juice or something?"

His curly haired friend nods, shifting his weight from one foot to another, obviously uneasy about agreeing to the question.

Patrick snaps, "What?" 

"Well, I mean, /Andy/ works there," Explains Joe, talking nervously with his hands, "and you /know/."

He drags out the last word, like it's totally obvious why Joe doesn't want to go to fucking Jamba Juice. 

"You know he doesn't start his shift till /after/ school right?" Patrick tells him, exasperated.

The former crosses his arms, "Yeah, but his /friends/ work there too!"

"Your point?"

"Lets just fucking then," Joe snaps, "I'll drive."

Patrick grins

***

"It's my two favorite customers!" The barista—Sid greets loudly, the minute Joe and Patrick enter, causing the other patrons to jump and glare at him.

Sid is a lanky, freckled boy with a loud voice and spikey hair. Patrick isn't sure if they like him or not.

"Hey," Joe greets him, waving slightly.

Sid leans over the counter, propping his head up on his palms, "What can I get you guys? The usual?" he asks, eyes flickering between the two.

Both boys nod. Sid is quick to jump to make their drinks.

"Sorry Andy isn't here," another barista, Amber says, walking over to take over the cashier spot. Her brown eyes are genuine, sympathetic when she adds, "we know he's your favorite."

Amber is Patrick's favorite employee, her dirty blonde hair always in curls, that cascade down past her shoulders, and she's the sweetest, most compassionate person ever. He usually likes talking to her.

Joe shrugs it off, like he's not totally smitten for him "Yeah."

"When are you gonna fuck him though?" Sid asks, over the whirring of the blender (and a little too loudly), earning yet another round of glares from the patrons. One gets up and leaves.

"When are you going to college?" Joe retorts back, squinting at him. Though his tone is playful and seems only vicious for humorous effect.

Amber is quick to respond, "When our parents support our dream to be in a band!" 

The bickering goes on like that for awhile, before the freckled barista plops down their drinks on the counter, followed by Amber's response of telling them the total.

Patrick pays this time—since it was him who dragged Joe to the smoothie place when he didn't want to. He's grateful for his friend sometimes. 

They take their drinks and sit in the back booth, away from the chattering businessmen on their phones and moms trying in vain to keep their children in line. 

"How did it go?" Joe asks, taking a sip of his smoothie. 

The strawberry blonde shrugs, and tugs down the sleeves of his hoodie so he can wrap his hands around the plastic cup, "I put the cd in his locker—I'm basically just waiting till I get called a fag and pushed into a locker. You know, like ninth grade?"

His friend rolls his eyes, "Stop doubting yourself, he may like it. Plus you've been pining over him for too long." 

"You're the one to talk Mr. "I-cant-go-to-Jamba-Juice-Because-I'm-Insecure-About-My-Crushs-Friends-Teasing-Me."

Joe gives him a look of mock of offense, his hand placed on his heart in a dramatic way, "I wouldn't expect you to understand," he tells him, "Andy's an older man."

"And Pete's not?" He asks, taking another sip of his drink, "He's like a grade level above me."

"And what a cougar he is," Joe says, sardonically. 

It's Patricks turn to roll his eyes, he takes back everything about being grateful for Joe—he retracts it. The memory of the thought is erased.

They finish up their drinks. Well, Joe does—Patrick just throws his half empty smoothie cup away (which causes Sid to yell a loud "Hey! I made that just for you asshole!) and leave.

Patricks pretty confident that he made fairly good decision to ditch his first period class—mediocre smoothies made by a loud punk totally beats going to a dumb electives class he /swears/ he didn't sign up for. Seriously, /costume design?/ Who the fuck wants to sign up for a class where you basically poke yourself with needles on a daily basis?

The drive back to school is a blur of loud blaring of Metallica and Joe mimicking the guitar riffs with his hands during stop lights, Successfully annoying Patrick all to hell.

Patrick counts his blessings as they pull up to school just in time for next period—God he loves ignorant teachers sometimes, and that's a statement he doesn't plan on retracting.

***

Okay, so maybe he lied earlier when he said his teachers are ignorant.

Because it seems that his second period teacher has some sort of power that detects fucking trace amounts of Jamba Juices Mango Pineapple Blast. Mrs. Summers calls him up to her desk the second he sits down.

Patricks face burns as he hears the soft voices murmuring phrases like "Shit, he's in trouble..", he tugs his hat downwards. 

"Patrick," Mrs. Summers says, her voice icy as a December morning, "Care to explain your truancy this morning?"

His hands shake slightly as he lies through his teeth, "I wasn't, ma'am. You know Henderson. He always skips over me." Patrick tries hard to make it convincing, he doesn't feel like getting yelled at in front of the class, /especially since Pete is in this class/. He can only take so much. 

His teacher gives him a wondering look, but disregards him. The strawberry blonde lets out a sigh of relief as he walks back to his seat. Thanking whatever God helped him dodge /that/ bullet. Seriously, he totally was convinced Mrs. Summers didn't know he existed.

"Still growing the sideburns, Stump?" A soccer jock named Gabe asks in a mocking tone. Patrick shoves past him, ignoring the statement, God, he almost forgot /Gabe/ is in this class too. He's always giving people shit for things that shouldn't even /matter/, who cares if Patricks still has sideburns—he fucking likes them, it /shouldn't fucking matter/ it /shouldn't/.

Patricks fuming in his seat, face red with embarrassment. He hates it when he's called out for things like that. He huffs out a breath, at least he didn't ask why he always wears hats—he doesn't feel like explaining to Gabe that he has Early Onset Balding. 

Mrs. Summer's continues to drone on about today's lesson, while the strawberry blonde basically zones out looking at his blank lined paper, attempting to convince himself that his sideburns looked /fine/ and Gabe doesn't know why he's talking about. He tugs his hat down, he just wants to hide from now on. 

He's so focused on thinking, he doesn't even notice when Pete shoots him a sympathetic look, and starts to scold Gabe. A mouthful of venomous words hissing quietly at the other soccer player.

***

Later on, after all he sits through another boring class period. Lunch rolls around. And Patricks all too grateful.

He clutches the brown paper bag close to his chest as he weaves through the crowd of people, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact per usual.

"Hey," Joe greets him, smiling softly when he spots him in the hallway. "Paper bagging again?" 

Patrick shrugs, walking alongside his friend to the lunchroom, "Had to—Jamba Juice is really draining my back account. You need to crush on more people who work at cheaper places." 

Laughing, Joe waves him off, in a light hearted 'fuck you' type of manner. Patrick rolls his eyes playfully at his friends antics. 

Lunch in the cafeteria is a rare occasion for the both of them—usually they avoid it. Joe can't really stand the smell of fake meat and milk and Patrick hates the large crowds. Though, they /already/ bought something this morning and like Patrick said before. Jamba Juice is really dropping an elbow on his bank account.

"So," His friend begins, taking their seat in an empty table smack in the middle of the cafeteria. "Did he realize it was you yet?"

Patrick shakes his head, "No, he's in my 2nd period. I basically embarrassed myself and zoned out the whole period." he explains, his brain echoing Gabe's mocking tone and the laughs he could've sworn he heard, his face goes red.

He hears Joe make a sympathetic noise, "Jesus, that's awful." 

Patrick shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich, "Yeah, but it doesn't matter anyways—it'll probably get worse later on."

Suddenly, a few tables down a booming voice echoes across the lunchroom, "Who's cd is this?"

The blood drains from Patricks face, he swallows panicky, paralyzed with fear. Joe's eyes are wide, glued on the jocks table—waiting for the next thing to come out of Pete's mouth.

Though, when no one responds, Pete holds up the case, the reflective light of the object catching and almost blinding him, his voice booms again, "Who made this cd?" 

Patricks launched onto Joe at this point, holding onto his friend tightly, scared to death. He knew the fucking cd was a bad idea, yet his brain convinced him otherwise. He's an idiot—but a part of him wonders if Pete actually listened to the cd, and if he likes the songs he played for him. 

It seems like an eternity before Pete eventually gives up, and sits back down—shrugging his shoulders while the other jocks bombard him with questions. The cd gets passed around and Patrick feels like he's gearing up for a heart attack. 

Patrick ends up throwing away the rest of his lunch, appetite lost. He feels like crying, or maybe punching a wall. Though, he's already done the second and doesn't plan on breaking his wrist again.

"Do you wanna leave?" Joe asks him, furrowing his brows in concern.

Patrick nods, "I fucking would love that."

Both boys get up from their seats and leave the cafeteria, they stop by their lockers so Joe can grab his keys and backpack. Patrick wishes the concept of going to school with so many people didn't exist.

"Jamba Juice?" Joe asks, twirling the key chain around his finger, Patrick nods.

"Twice in a day, it's a new record." His friend points out, making Patrick chuckle softly, tugging his backpack straps up.

The strawberry blonde prays that he didn't fuck up his life too bad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im dying and this is short and terribly written

"You just couldn't stay away could you?" Sid says, laughing when he spots the two boys. "I didn't know had a talent for making smoothies."

"You don't," Patrick assures the barista, "We just needed a place to hang."

Sid just shrugs, turns around, and starts to make their drinks the same as this mornings. Patrick dully notices that the baristas quieter than earlier, probably because the manager chewed him out.

Amber emerges from the break room the second Sid finishes pouring the drinks into the large cups, "Hey, you're back," she says, fixing her visor. Beaming at the two.

"Yeah," Joe says, giving the girl a small smile, "we just needed a place to hang, you know?"

Amber nods, "Well, you're in luck. Andy's shift starts in about 10 minutes. Hopefully you stick around."

"Maybe I will," He replies, nonchalantly. Which basically code for 'damn right I'm going to stay', Patrick lets out an amused huff at the his friends reply. 

Joe hands Sid the money, while Patrick grabs their drinks. They sit in the same booth as earlier. The place is less crowded than it was in the morning, there's only a couple people scattered around. Some alone, others chattering with a group—a basic afternoon crowd.

"Can we just stay here till school ends?" Patrick asks, slumping in his seat a bit. "I'd rather not go back."

"I'd say 'yes' but there's around more than 3 hours till school ends—and I really don't think their going to like it if we stay that long without buying anything." Joe explains to him, "and you know how Sid is, he has no chill. And even though Amber's a sweet angel, she'll probably be a little harsher when her managers breathing down her neck."

Patrick hums in response, and steals a glance of the said barista who's currently speaking to Andy. She really is nice—though he wonders what it takes to make her mad, and if she used to get teased in high school.

He throws a little piece of paper from his straw at Joe, in a 'hey your crush is here' type of way. Joe just scrunches up his nose and huffs. 

"You know," Patrick says, "you should go talk to him, instead of pining over him from afar. The love-sick schoolboy shtick isn't really suiting you."

"I've talked to him!" Joe defends, crossing his arms over his chest, like he absolutely can't believe Patrick even /said/ that.

He rolls his eyes, "Yeah, like twice—and I'm not counting the times when you told him your order. It's depressing, man."

"You're depressing!"

"Grow a pair!" Patrick exclaims, nudging him a bit.

Joe swats him "Get a haircut!" 

The comment makes Patrick laugh and touch the back of his hair subconsciously, maybe he did need one, his hair is basically touching his shoulders now. But that is besides the point. Leave it to Joe to change the subject when things aren't going his way. 

The strawberry blonde leans over to him, "If I manned up—and trust me that's saying a lot. You have to." He starts to nudge his friend, "Go talk to him."

Joe glares daggers at him. His scowl returns, as he sips his drink. "I don't have to do anything."

"Fine have it your way," Patrick replies, getting up from his seat, Joes eyes go wide, "What are you...?"

In a flash, Patrick's Mango blast is poured on Joe's Morrissey shirt, the drink seeps through the fabric, making Joe gasp loudly at the sudden action. "Dude!" He exclaims.

Patrick's not listening, instead his head is facing toward the counter saying, "Hey, my friend spilled something!"

The three baristas look over toward the back booth, along with a few other patrons they forgot were still there. Sid bursts out laughing while the other two exchange a questioning look, Andy's quick to grab a roll of paper towels from under the counter and rushes toward them. His long hair flopping as he jogs over. 

"You okay?" Andy asks him, his head titling to the side, Patrick hears Joe's breathing go silent.

"Yea-yeah," Joe's eyes are wide like he can't believe Andy's in front of him, alive and breathing. "Justa spill."

Andy rips off a paper towel and hands it to the curly haired man. "Here—just don't tell my boss about this. Okay?"

Joe nods, his eyes glazed over, he reaches out a shaky hand, taking the paper towel square out of the baristas hand. Placing the rest of the towel roll on the table, Andy turns to leave.

Patrick makes brief eye contact with his friend and mouths 'You're losing him!'

His friend catches the red haired baristas wrist before he leaves, "Heywillyougooutwithme?" Joe blurts, his face flushed deep red, his voice shaky.

Andy blinks at him before his a smile starts to grow on his face, "Yeah, sure. When were you thinking?"

"Saturday?" he asks, loosening the grip. Patrick feels a swell of pride for his friend, as he watches Andy agree and write his number on a napkin. 

"Shit!" They hear Sid exclaim, "Amber, you see that? Joe /finally/ did it!"

Making sure he's in Sid's field of vision, Joe stands up and flips off the freckled barista, "Get a job!" 

Sid looks like he wants to respond, but the look that he gets from Amber shuts him up, going back to cleaning the blenders.

He sits back down, sighing, "Okay," Joe says, tucking the napkin in his jacket pocket. "Where were we?"

***

When they finally leave the smoothie place for the second time today—Patrick's ready to take a nap and watch The Office. He's tired and the day seemed to drag on longer than he wanted it to, but he guesses they were some high points during it.

Joe drives him to his house, while Patrick stares out the window. The cars radio blaring some—actually really catchy—not-love song his friend seems to really like. As usual Joe's humming the guitar parts with perfect timing Patrick only wishes he could master.

"You had fun today?" Joe asks before Patrick exists the car.

The strawberry blonde nods, "Yeah, thanks. Hopefully you and Andy text a lot tonight."

"We're practically married," Joe tells him, "don't worry."

Patrick laughs, pulling on his backpack he says his goodbye and exists the car. 

It's only an a little over an hour earlier than he's suppose to come home, he hopes his mom didn't get off work early. He'd probably get his ass kicked.

Patrick runs into his room, shuts the door, and collapses on his bed. Burying himself in the soft baby blue blankets, he emits a soft sigh. He's so tired.

He doesn't even notice when he starts to fall asleep, he's that comfortable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is short because schools really kicking my ass and ill try to update as best I can!!! im so sorry if it's rushed and poorly written

The first thing that Patrick says when he wakes up is a soft, "What the fuck?"

Confused, he pats around for his glasses. It's dark, really dark. His mom should've woken him up for dinner like she usually does. He strains to read the clock.

The numbers 2:45am look back at him in bold, angry red letters. Patrick shoots up, wide awake and brain scrambled with thoughts of "What the fuck?"

Patrick's stomach growls, he needs food. And the solid kind—he feels like he's dying. And based on yesterday's events, he probably is.

The darkness in the room adds to the panic rising in his chest, he manages to catch himself before he trips and falls on his guitar, "Shit," he mumbles, a wave of relief crashing over him, he could've woken up his mom—and only god knows how /that/ would've ended up.

Patrick tip toes down the stairs, and to the kitchen where he makes himself a plate of probably the worlds greasiest nachos, he really have the energy to make anything else. Plus, the muffled whirring of the microwave probably wouldn't be enough to wake his mom or his siblings. 

Carefully, he grabs the plate and tiptoes down to the living room. He figures he's wide awake now—why not watch muted cartoons till it lulls him to sleep? Patrick wolfs down the nachos before switching on the TV.

As it turns out, Tom and Jerry is really fucking trippy when you're alert at 3am. Seriously, what the fuck is the cats problem? Chasing that fucking mouse around, "Let him be, for godsake!" he finds himself muttering, at random points during the show. Okay, Patrick may acting a little crazy, but would you really expect anything else from a kid who's probably going to get his ass kicked in the next 3 hours?

Shit, Patrick hasn't even /thought/ of what's going to happen at school. He's been so focused on what's happening in the present, Pete's little fit in the lunchroom shows that he's probably not into it. Why would he be? If he got a cd filled with a bunch of covers of songs like Anything, Anything by /fucking Dramarama/ he'd probably react the same way.

Or, maybe recognize that those types of gifts cost time and money and he should be grateful for it. But you know, everyone's different.

Patrick sighs, and rests his head in his sweater-pawed palms, /what is he gonna do?/. Good thing he has Joe—Joe usually is a quick thinker when it comes to these types of situations. Though, Joe's been so busy lately with his stupid Jamba Juice crush, and he can't even imagine how insufferable it's going to be now that Joe actually has Andy's /fucking number/. Life is really not going according to plan right now. 

Then again, he could always turn to sleeping and cartoons when things get too rough. 

***

Patrick feels like a fucking zombie.

And not the really gross decayed kind that you'd see in Dawn of the Dead. But more like the the vanilla kind in older movies—you know, the ones without color?

Okay, so maybe that really doesn't make sense—in short he feels like fucking trash on legs.

He guesses it's because he feel asleep after eating some /really/ heavy food. Patricks never had a hangover, but he assumes it feels like this: nausea mixed with an awful stomach ache. 

Patrick slowly gets up from the sticky couch, the TV still on the same channel he feel asleep to. His clothes stuck to his body with sweat. Gross, he thinks, grimacing. He goes to push up his glasses, his fingers brush against the bridge of his nose, empty.

Glasses. 

Shit

 

The sounds of the low murmurs of good morning and some other kitchen cliche noises are enough to motivate him to run up stairs and change—he doesn't really shower that often in the mornings, but he figures he kind of needs one.

Patrick tries to make his shower quick. Which results in him using his sisters shampoo and body wash—his face burns in embarrassment when he realizes what a fool his undercaffienated self is. 

He finds his glasses on the foot of his bed, askew. Patrick picks them up and examines them for any visible damage, his mom would murder him if he broke /another pair/, he pushes them on, and goes to find clothes the day.

"Patrick!" His mom calls loudly, jolting him from his closet rummaging, "you awake!"

"Yes, mom!" Patrick yells back, taking a denim jacket off its hanger. "I'll be right down!"

Patrick ends up wearing a blue trucker hat, his favorite Bowie shirt paired with dark jeans. He shrugs on his jean jacket and gulps down his coffee before running out the door.

He spots Joe's car a few block down, turning into his sub division. Patrick waits patiently in the drive way.

"Wow," Joe says, as soon as Patrick climbs into his car, "This has to be the first time I didn't have to honk to wake you up."

Patrick looks at him with tired eyes, "Can you refrain for being an asshole for like, one second? I'm not even awake."

"Oh really? Because you smell like body wash and coffee," Joe points out, his expression stern, "So you're either 1) lying to me or 2) you had a shit night."

"A mix of both is probably a safe bet right now," Patrick tells him, shrugging.

Joe snorts and starts pulling out of his driveway, "You're really something."

"Yeah, I know."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unedited bc we are men

School is louder than usual, to say the least.

Because the minute the two boys walk through those plexiglass double doors, they're engulfed in a sea of murmurs and loud whispers of conversation. Students gather around the cork bulletin, clawing their way to read a large red poster with the words: Who's CD? written in large blocky letters.

Patricks stomach drops so fucking low the minute he's hit with the realization. He feels like he's back at the county fair again, riding the spinning tea cups. The nausea is back, followed by dizziness. How could he have let this happen? Pete Wentz was always some sort of an overly excited individual—/but this?/ had to be overstepping some sort of line, why couldn't he just let it go! It was just some fucking dumb gift!

"Dude, look," Joe says, nudging at the finer print of the large crudely made poster, "It says auditions will be held in the chorus room after school—"

Patrick's brain goes to fight or flight mode the minute those words escape Joe's mouth. "No," he states firmly, his gaze fixated on his shoes, "It's fucking stupid and extra. He's acting like this is the first time someone has ever done something like this for him."

Joe blinks at him, "Uh, it kinda is, dude. Wentz is really popular, sure. But you do realize people just don't go around recording covers of cute songs and put them on a CD to hand out to their crushes? I'm not even that surprised." he adds the last part with a shrug, Patrick fumes.

"So? It's still extremely extra! Come on—take my side for this one. I'm obviously being logical here!"

"You got a great voice, Patrick," Joe tells him, "it would really be a shame if it would go unnoticed."

A flattering compliment, Patrick thinks, but no matter what, he'd rather die than show the school that he: Patrick Martin Stump, recorded a CD full of songs for a boy because of his dumb, gay crush, that he should've gotten over years ago.

Patrick just hopes it doesn't get worse than this. 

***

Hoping obviously isn't enough to make things better, he can't even believe he let himself think otherwise. 

Costume design was already Patricks least favorite class—he never really liked the whole idea of coming up with a /whole fucking outfit/ draw it, and put it together. He doesn't even remember how or why he chose the elective, maybe it was a spur of the moment kind of deal. Regardless, it's too late to transfer, so he's stuck here with a bunch of giggly Art Kids with brightly colored hair. 

But today is probably one of the worst days he's ever had in this class, because 1) everyone's taking about the whole CD thing 2) /everyone's fucking taking about the CD/

It seems like something out of an old teen comedy/drama love story. Patricks no clumsy yet adorable protagonist with 'quirky' hobbies, he's more like an awkward side character that the audience can't seem to figure out their opinions about. 

Patrick puts his headphones in immediately after the teacher stops talking, he blasts the volume and begins to sketch yet another design for the current play they're assigned. Though he can't seem to focus, the everyone in the room is chatting amongst themselves like usual, but this time it's all about the same topic. And Patrick can't seem to shake off the feeling of curiosity. he finds himself lowering his volume on his iPod to hear what the gaggle of girls are talking about.

A girl with bright pink hair and a septum piercing is conversing loudly with a equally as bright green haired girl. She's using her hands a lot, talking excitedly. Patrick strains to hear.

"—He said something about a Golden voice. I'm telling you Daisy, he's totally swoon over this." 

Green hair just shrugs, brushing her angler bangs out of her eyes, "It's totally insane what guys do for girls, I can't believe the teachers are even letting him!"

"Are you kidding? Why wouldn't they? Pete's like, a star athlete. He basically won us the championship last year. Teachers would lick his shoes if he asked."

"Ew."

The two girls laugh loudly, an ear bleeding giggle-scream that irritates the strawberry blonde. Maybe because he wishes he had friends to gossip to—well other than Joe.

Patrick decides he's heard enough and shoves his headphones back in.

***

Patrick walks from class to class, headphones in and trying his best to ignore the annoying repetitive murmurs and conversations that seem to get more and more redundant as time goes on.

"I think I'll just try to sound like the girl on the CD," one girl says to her friend, loudly behind her cupped palm. 

"Good idea!" Her friend praises, giggling, "Your singing style is so adaptable—I'm sure he'll totally believe it!"

Patrick scoffs and tugs his hat down. Do people really think the voice on the CD belongs to a /girl/? Have they even heard it? Does Pete know?

A million questions swirl through Patricks head, but one stood front and center in his brain: "How will Pete react knowing that he'll never /actually/ figure out it's him?" 

Anxiety bubbles in his chest, he feels so guilty. Patrick knows he can't just show up and start singing, he'll get even more shit than he already does. Not to mention how Pete will see him after that, the soccer player probably thinks of him as the weird sideburns kid who only has one friend—at least that's what everyone already thinks, why should Pete be excluded?

The next class he goes to makes him want to vomit.

Pete sits in his desk, a crowd of jocks around him, blocking both sides of the aisle way. So Patrick has to go around. They're all whispering—even Gabe—which makes his blood run cold.

No matter how hard Patrick strains to hear—he's met with illegible whispers and sentence fragments that make no sense to him. Eventually, he gives up and goes back to focusing on whatever new stain is on his converse today.

Patrick still makes quick glances at the group every now and then, still banded together even after the teacher had began the lesson, but the whispers have been upgraded to scrawled notes on scrap paper. He squints to see.

Pete catches his staring, which throws Patrick off guard, his face flushes. But the soccer player just offers him a lopsided smile and titles his head. The strawberry blonde quickly tears his eyes away, his body feels like it's on fire. Too hot everywhere, he tugs his hat down lower, and looks at the ground. 

***

"Patrick, dude," Joe's running up to him, a ziplock bag filled to the brim with what looks like chocolate cookies, "Some kind left their cookies on the table—and oh man, I just took it /all/"

Joe offers a cookie to Patrick, thrusting the bag toward him. The strawberry blonde shakes his head, holding up his lunch, "I'm totally good dude, thanks."

Both boys walk toward an empty table in the lunch room, and just like before school this morning. It's louder than usual. Patrick finds himself having to to yell over the roar of the students.

"He smiled at me today," Patrick tells his friend, before biting into an apple.

Joe quirks an eyebrow, "Pete? Really?"

"Yeah," Patrick replies, shrugging his shoulders lightly, "it made me like—almost have a heart attack."

"Deadass?"

"Don't say that ever again.," he says to Joe, seriously. "That word makes me sick to my stomach."

"Actually it's two words—"

Patrick ignores him, "Do you think he knows?"

Joe shovels a cookie in his mouth, "Nah," he says, a handful of crumbs spew at of his mouth. "Pretty sure he's never heard you sing, let alone talk."

He scrunches up at the fallen crumbs on the table, a few land on his arm (gross). "Joe, did you ever learn table manners?" he quips, brushing the stray cookie off of himself.

"Stop being a mom," Joe tells him, "I already get enough of that at home."

"I can see where your mom comes from." Patrick drawls, rolling his eyes.

"Don't take my moms side!"

Patrick takes a drink from his water bottle, "Pay back," he winks.

***

Patrick shifts impatiently in his desk, his hands are tapping a rather repetitive pattern on the table, earning. a couple annoyed glares from his peers. 

Truthfully, he's kind of considering showing up at the auditions. Granted, he's not going to /actually/ sing or do anything. He'll probably just watch people get 'next-ed' off the small stage, while he sits very far in the back.

Or he could just drown his regrets in fruit smoothies, like a regular person. Instead of sitting in the darkness like a creep.

Patrick sighs, and stops his tapping, settling on bouncing his leg instead. The shift of nervous stims seem to lessen the classrooms annoyed tension toward him. Still, he's restless, and he's got at least 20 minutes to make the decision, which is basically leading to some really annoying The Clash references. 

He settles on sending a quick text to Joe, a second opinion would be great at the moment. 

hey dude should we go??

A reply is sent a second later.

no lol

 

Oh, well that was quick, he thinks. It's probably for the best anyways, Joe's obviously right. He's always kind of been the straightforward friend anyways.

Patricks thoughts are all mostly passive-aggressive, he goes back to drumming on his desk. 

Two of his classmates groan.


End file.
